


Black Magic Woman (NSFW)

by eratothemuse



Series: Supernatural Imagines [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, If You Squint - Freeform, NSFW, Porn With Plot, not safe for work, sex spells, someone grab the holy water because we're about to sin folks, this barely has plot lets be honest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21745090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: Sure, you thought Sam Winchester was attractive. You were a woman, after all; you had eyes, but never did you think that your time traveling with the Winchesters would evolve into anything other than harmless flirting and buried feelings. What would it take to cross that line? Turns out, all it takes is a bloodthirsty witch, and a curse in the midst of a hunt that’s way over all of your heads.(Basically based on the imagine prompt that has been haunting me for 100 years:  Imagine you have to help Sam through a sex spell.)
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/Original Female Character(s), Castiel (Supernatural)/You, Castiel/Reader, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You, Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Sam Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/You
Series: Supernatural Imagines [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1222943
Comments: 12
Kudos: 193





	1. Black Magic Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Been sitting on this fic for the longest time and finally got unblocked for it. Plan on writing more parts with different characters, possibly.
> 
> Plot? What plot?

##  _**Black Magic Woman** _

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/175937915697/extremedistressorstellarblowjob) | [2](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Frebloggy.com%2Fpost%2Fsupernatural-sam-winchester-castiel-yes-spn-first-born-spnedit-spnedits-by-me%2F74180391986&t=NzYzMTg3OTJhODc4ODRhNjgwNjA1OGMwMGY1M2E4MjA5ODU1ZWFkYixrNVpMVTdNQg%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F189590980663%2Fblack-magic-woman-gif-source-1-2-3&m=0) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/187946768712/transgendersam-6x09-clap-your-hands-if-you)

You should have known coming into town like you did was too easy. Strolling around, asking all sorts of questions about the recent string of spontaneous hemorrhage-related deaths in the area had put a big red target on your back before the three of you even realized what exactly you were hunting.

Pulling the hex bag from beneath Sam’s bed, now you knew exactly what you were hunting.

“Witches,” Dean bites, as if the word is distasteful in his mouth. Sam had started feeling strange this morning, sweats and a fever that had you almost thinking he was coming down with the flu, until now.

You glance over to Sam, noticing his sorry state hadn’t improved from where he was breathing heavily, sitting on the edge of the bed, before you look to Dean, “Well, it has to be one of the people we’ve spoken to.”

“My bet’s on that deputy. Dude gave me the creeps,” Dean sighs, loading his gun and tucking it into the back of his jeans, beneath the flannel he wore.

“Let’s go,” Sam begins an attempt to get off the edge of the bed, only to be stopped by Dean’s directed point.

“Woah, there, you’re not going anywhere with that witch’s mojo still working on you.”

“What? Dean that’s ridiculous—“

“Dude, take a look in the mirror! You look like crap!”

“Hate to say it, Sam, but he’s right. You’re in no condition to go after a witch right now,” you quirk your lips to the side in an apologetic manner, watching the annoyance flutter across Sam’s face.

He looks as if he’s going to protest further, but Dean silences him, “(Y/N), stay with Sammy and make sure he doesn’t get any worse. See if you can find out what spell that witch did with that hex bag. I’m gonna’ call Cas and see if we can’t gank the son of a bitch before you,” Dean glances towards Sam with pity, “get worse.”

You’re unsurprised at Dean’s order. Being raised by witches meant you’d picked up a thing or two, even if you didn’t practice the arts yourself. Still, the knowledge of spells, energies, and herbs had made you a great diffuser of spells in a more brute-force way than having the original witch revoke it. Most spells and potions had a loophole, you’d learned in your time.

“I’m on it,” you nod, but catch Dean before he can make it out of the motel room, “Oh, and, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. I get mad vibes from this one.”

Dean gives his own nod of understanding before slipping out the door with a, “Will do,” offered in his leave. You don’t take the response as him being flippant with your advice. He knew that if you were warning him about something, you meant business.

You’re picking apart the hex bag when Sam calls from the bed, “Are those rose petals?” Glancing towards him, you don’t miss the way he’s gripping the edge of the bed. It had only taken one look at the hex bag’s contents to suspect what spell had been cast. This witch sure had a wry sense of humor.

“Yes. Rose petals, orgonite, a vial of red wine, and soil from the most fertile time of the harvest, most likely,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam as you settle more and more on your conclusion. “A separate vial of graveyard dirt has been added, too.”

“I know that look on you, (Y/N). You know what it’s for, don’t you?” Sam was breathless by now, and you wonder if the spell was finally taking full hold judging by the way he was looking you over.

“Sam,” taking a breath, you prepare yourself to tell him, steeling yourself as you look him in his blown pupils to announce, “it’s a bastardized sex spell.”

You wonder if he would have blushed had his face not already been as flushed as it was, sweat beading at his brows as they raise with shock, “A _what_ spell?”

“Sex, Sam. A sex spell. Usually they’re used when witches want to spice up their love life or in preparation for a particularly powerful harvest orgasm, to increase the power of an upcoming spell,” you explain, grateful your voice didn’t shake under the positively lecherous stare Sam was giving you, “but this one has graveyard dirt added, with no doubt a changed incantation over the hex bag. It looks like instead of pleasure it was meant for torment. I think it’s safe to assume that, if it isn’t reversed, this witch intends the curse to be fatal.”

“Okay,” Sam swallows, shutting his eyes as if to concentrate for a moment past what must have been a burning lust that was now surging through him, “how do we reverse it?” You were honestly surprised he was even coherent, with how ragged he looked.

You bite your bottom lip for a moment, wracking your brain for any and all options you had at the moment, before settling on the three you always knew were the only ones, “There are three possible ways that I know of.” Sam waits with an expectant look, his hands migrating to his thighs to give them a labored grip, “One, the witch who cast the spell could reverse the hex of their own volition, which I doubt is going to happen since this one’s particularly bloodthirsty. Two, Dean and Cas could kill the witch before you completely explode, but I wouldn’t place my bets on that with how quickly it seems to be taking hold now…”

“And the third?” Sam prompts when you trail off, feeling your face heat. You can’t believe you were about to suggest this.

“I give you an antidote to the normal sex spell and… you ride it out in the hopes it works,” you drawl, giving a pointed look before you elaborate, “And by, ‘ride it out,’ I mean have a _lot_ of sex with someone.”

You try to ignore the shudder that goes through Sam. His lips were parted, panting, sweat beading at his skin and you know he must be feeling like he’s on fire just about now. A normal sex spell increased a person’s natural body heat, but a cursed sex spell? You could only imagine how much pain he was in, and it was only going to get worse if you didn’t do something about it. Fast.

“So,” he finally manages, clearing his throat as best he could, but the tone is still husky and breathless and sends you shifting your position even without an added aphrodisiac, “what you’re telling me, is that I can sit here and hope for a miracle, or I can do something about it.”

“Bare bones?” you can’t help the look of pity that you give him, watching as his hands grasp and release his own thighs in a rhythmic motion to try and focus his mind on something else, anything but the raging hard-on that even you could see straining in his jeans, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice here, and even if I could wait it out,” Sam leans his head back, sweat dripping down his neck and his hair falling away from his face as he takes a slow breath to level himself before opening his eyes to level you with the intensity in them, “I don’t want to.”

“Sam…” your eyes widen as he stands from the bed, the bulge in his pants announcing the curse was in full effect, “this is the spell talking… you don’t want me.” He shakes his head at you, moving closer to where you were leaned against the rickety motel dresser that came to a full height just above your waist. Effortlessly, he pins you to it, hands on either side of your body.

For a moment, you think he’s about to ravish you right then and there, with how his eyes slip down your form before baring into yours with just about the most heated look you’d ever seen on him, but then he grits out through clenched teeth, “Make. The antidote.”

“Sam—”

“Make it, because I’m not going to be able to keep from fucking you much longer.”

At first, you can only manage a quick squeak of, “Okay,” escaping from his closeness with no illusions to the fact that he was allowing you to do so in order to rummage through your duffel in the corner of the room. You find your ingredients fast enough, before rushing back to Sam and ordering his pocket knife, which he retrieves from his back pocket. “I need your blood— sorry,” you add hurriedly before you slip the blade against his finger. You didn’t need much, just enough to focus the antidote to him. Before you continue, you glance to him, “I’m going to need to bleed whoever you choose to do this with, too, Sammy.” Wetting your dry lips, you dare to ask him, one last time, “Are you sure you want it to be me?”

“You,” it tumbles from him instantly and, before you can protest, his gaze softens behind the lust, “it’s always been you, (Y/N).”

“Sam,” you breathe, shock flooding you at his nearly wordless confession. Sure, you’d flirted around with each other since the moment you began travelling with the boys, and there was no doubt of the one-sided infatuation with the younger Winchester on your part, but for him to be saying this here, now? You had to wonder how much of it was the spell and just how much of it was actually Sam. “I don’t want you to say something you’re going to regret when this is all over.”

He looks almost exhausted by your answer, but a chuckle escapes him as he moves to take your hand that held the knife, “I’ve wanted you before some crazy witch hexed me, okay? Let’s deal with the curse first, and then let me prove to you how much you are _so not_ taking advantage of me right now. Unless, you don’t want me…”

“No! I want you!” you would have been embarrassed by how quick you were to banish the notion, but you let the fact that time was running out on this curse be your only excuse.

“Okay,” Sam begins, “It’s okay, then. Don’t worry about anything.”

“You should not be reassuring me right now,” you huff, wincing as you slip the knife along your skin and add your own blood to the mixture, “you’re the one who got cursed!” You tense when you feel Sam’s hands slip around your waist as you add the final touches to your antidote, your voice nearly shaking as you chanted the words required to complete it when his lips press along your neck, desperate for attention.

Then there was the fact that he was flush against you, six-foot-four of hard man, with his jeans doing little to mask the feeling of his hard length against your ass. On a good day, this position you found yourself in would have been enough to make your mind go blank. You find yourself gripping the edge of the dresser, leaning back and tilting your head to allow his lips better purchase at your throat when you finish, trying your damnedest to keep yourself from moaning when his teeth graze along your skin before he returns to abusing a particular spot with his lips, “I-I’m done. It’s gonna’ taste gross, but—”

Sam doesn’t let you finish. He’s so quick it reminds you of how he is during a fight as he snatches the cup from the dresser to down the contents of the antidote in one quick swig, as if taking a shot.

He slaps the cup back down before turning you where you stand to face him, and you see how his eyes are nearly black with the lust taking him over, “Strip. Right now.”

But he’s tearing at your clothes, wrenching your shirt over your head, snapping the band of your bra until it falls to the floor in an unimportant heap. His hands are at your jeans, but he doesn’t let his effort to unbutton them keep him from your lips.

Your head is spinning with the kiss, your startled gasp all he needs to slip his tongue into your mouth. Desperation laces his every movement, and when your fingers card into his hair, he moans. A shudder runs through him, and you’re barely able to kick off your jeans when he’s tugging you up by your thighs to settle you on the dresser.

He tasted like blood, and you feel the tingle of the ingredients of your own antidote on his tongue. Even though you were entirely sober, Sam has you feeling more drunk than any whiskey could provide. He’s burning hot, large hand searing the flesh of your sides as his hands roam your body, squeezing at your breasts.

You arch into him, mewling against his lips, and earning a graze of his teeth on your bottom lip in return. God, you were so wet for him, and he’d barely touched you yet.

“I’m dying,” he gasps against your lips, rutting his denim-clad crotch against the thin cotton of your core, eyes shut as another desperate shudder rips through him.

“Relax. Let me help,” you whisper in an attempt to soothe him if only a little, taking to popping the buttons of his flannel as he gripped the dresser so tightly his knuckles went white. He was shaking, his brow furrowed in pain as another wave of nearly unbearable heat ripped through him. You lean forward, pushing the shirt from his shoulders and capturing his lips with your own.

It’s like he’s on fire. You were starting to sweat, just from being this close to him. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, and even though you rationally knew this curse wasn’t spreading to you, his lust certainly was contagious.

His hand ghosts along your hips as you push his jeans and boxers from his own with one good tug. That’s when you feel the strain of the straps of your panties, and hear the distinct ripping that signaled his ruination of your underwear.

“Sam!” you gasp at his lips, almost scoldingly, but he tugs you from the dresser and your body is forced to cling to him for support.

His voice sounds far more apologetic than his body displays, “I’m sorry— I can’t help—”

You kiss at his jaw as he beds you down, “I know. It’s okay.” The mattress creaks under your combined weight, and he slips from your grasp to trail his lips down the slope of your neck and the valley of your breasts. His hands grab at your thighs, as his tongue delves into your navel, and you arch in his grasp with a shuddering breath.

When you dare to look down at him, he’s level with your aching core, and his eyes spare a glance back up to you. He looked amazing, for a man on the verge of death. Dark brown hair fanned along his face, shadowing the dangerously wild look in his eyes, as the stubble that came from a few days without shaving traced his jaw.

Sam kisses the junction of your thigh, and you twitch in his grip at the sound that comes from him. The only way you can even begin to describe it, was a _growl_.

“I’m going to make you beg for it,” he breathes, deep and hot, along your core, and you completely believe him.

“Sam,” you whisper, feeling the lust, apprehension, and slight twinge of fear lacing your heart. You’d never been with someone under the influence of a spell such as this, but you had read the stories of what it could do. Of how insatiable it could make a person. You could only imagine the twisted curse of it would make him even moreso.

You hoped you could handle it.

He doesn’t give you a chance to find your answer, because his mouth covers your core so deliciously, you can barely breathe through the pleasure of it. His tongue collects the wetness of you, flicking along your most sensitive bundle of nerves to flatten at your entrance once again.

He was way too good at this.

He chuckles, the vibrations hitting you deep, sending your heels digging into his sides and forcing him to hold your hips down as you buck up into his face. Had you gasped that aloud? You didn’t even know anymore. You were barely coherent, as he pushes a thick finger within you, curling it just enough to send shivers of white-hot pleasure up your spine.

You bite into your arm to keep from screaming, and Sam tugs you further down the bed as his fingers part you so he can kiss you deeper. He was intense, and you weren’t entirely sure whether to chalk it up to the spell or if it was all just him.

When he presses a second digit into your dripping core, you have your first orgasm. Bliss racing through you to curl your toes, your thighs quivering along his shoulders as you bite your cries into the flesh of your arm, muffling them as best you can.

But he doesn’t stop, just keeps going, keeps fucking his fingers into you and sucking at your clit until you’re begging him to stop, right up until he forces a second orgasm from you, barely a minute after the first.

You push at him, tugging his hair until he lets out a groan and relents, pulling back and slowing his fingers, until he finally pulls them out of you. Your chest is heaving, deep gasps of air forcing oxygen back into your lungs as sweat mats your hair to your brow.

“Holy fuck,” you manage, hoarse already, as your eyes slip back to Sam. He was breathing heavy, and watching you like you were something to be devoured. Bringing his hand to his lips, he tastes the essence of you on his fingers, and you can’t hide your moan this time at the sight of it.

He groans your name and you reach out to him, urging him to lean over the length of you. When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue, but the feeling of his length moving between your folds is far more distracting than his tongue.

Sam was big— bigger than any man you’d taken before and, in all honesty, you worried that no amount of preparation was going to make up for the tight squeeze this was bound to be. He groans into your mouth, and your nails dig into his shoulder blades, as he grinds himself against you with one, two, three thrusts.

Then, the tip of him settles at your core, and you feel the stretch of him as he pushes in. You were holding onto him for dear life, and his arms were wrapped around you in much the same manner. The moan he gasps against your clavicle is accompanied by a shudder that even you can feel in your bones, as he pulls back a bit to rock a little deeper into you on his next thrust.

“Sammy,” you mewl beneath him, near to losing your mind, and knowing he was nowhere near sheathed within you yet. It was astounding, how you could feel every inch of him, every ridge of his dick, as he impaled you with it. Then, you reach the breaking point. The edge where the pleasurable fullness gave way to the twinge of the pain of overfilling.

Your nails dig a little deeper at it, and he stops for a second, rocking out just a little to push forward again, and you can barely take it when his pelvis hits against the swell of your clit.

He’s breathing heavy near your ear, hands holding so tightly that you were certain he was going to leave a bruise along your skin, but neither of you cared how you marked each other up right now.

He sounds so wrecked when he finally does speak, that you nearly cum again, “So tight— you’re _so tight_ —”

“Please,” you beg, dragging your nails down his back and relishing in the reflexive tensing of his abdominal muscles you earn in return, “Sammy, I need it—”

Sam silences you as he pulls out, not even halfway, to surge back into you again, hitting you so deep you would swear he was on your cervix. If you were bleeding tomorrow, you would certainly know why. But it felt so good, that any pain you felt was more than worth it.

When he pulls out again, it’s nearly completely, and this time when he snaps his hips, he rips a sound from your throat that you hadn’t thought possible. You beg him, incoherent pleas mixed with your moans as his pace goes from slow to nearly unbearably harsh.

You can hardly get enough.

He leans back, tucking his hands behind your knees to drag your hips up and, though you would have sworn it was impossible a second ago, somehow manages to hit you deeper. You raise your arms over your head, grasping at the sheets as he calls your name far too erotically for you not to go over the edge right then and there.

When the coil in your belly snaps again, you swear you’re left seeing stars. Eyes clenched so tightly shut that the multicolored lights swirling in your vision is all you can focus on, along with the intense rush of pleasure hitting every cell of your being. From your head to your toes, you’re wrecked, and Sam just keeps going. Keeps hitting you so deep you think this will be the end of you.

You hardly have any time to recover when his thumb comes to your clit, rubbing desperate circles and pulling you up to your elbows with the force of it all.

“I’m gonna—” he grits through clenched teeth, head thrown back and sweat dripping down his chest. He looked beautiful, you manage to think. His voice is utterly destroyed, desperation on his throat as he gasps, “I’m gonna’ cum— Fuck— I’m about to—”

“Not— not inside,” you push at him, and just as quickly he’s wrenching himself away from you to spill all over your stomach. He knocks the wind out of you when he falls, collapsing over you to the point that you could barely breathe, but you don’t want him to go. The weight of him is pleasurable in itself, and you can sacrifice a few deep breaths for the feeling of his warm chest against your own and his lips at your jaw.

“Damn,” he manages, seemingly just as spent as you.

Your fingers trace down his spine, as you grasp his bicep with your other hand, breathless, “Do you feel any better?”

“A little,” he looks up at you, and you start to see the Sammy you knew in his sheepish eyes, “but all I can think about is fucking you again.”

That was truth enough, if how quickly he was becoming hard against your abdomen was anything to go by, but he felt a little cooler than he had before, “I think this is working, then.”

“Do you think you can go again?” he breathes, and you hear the change in his tone, lust seeping back into it and muddying the clarity that had been there a moment ago.

“I’ll go as many times as it takes to get you better,” you giggle, pulling his lips down to your own once again. You were going to barely be able to walk when all this was through, but it was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.

It takes a good three hours for him to even begin to start getting back to normal, and by the fourth, you’re both utterly exhausted. You’re sprawled along his chest, completely fucked out, and he wasn’t in a much better state than you, but at least he no longer wanted to screw anything on two legs.

You were just on the verge of sleep, exhaustion dragging your bones down to his like they were made of lead, when the sound of a key card in the door stirs you.

Dean’s distinctive voice calls out, “Hey, I think Cas and I figured out who the witch is— _What the hell?”_


	2. Witchy Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt is on for the witch that has been wreaking havoc in the rural Kansas town of Cottonwood Falls, but the hunt just got a lot harder now that the witch is hunting you, too. Not to mention, how stiff Dean’s been since you helped Sam through the hex. At this rate, you were never going to get a leg up on this witch. At least, not until your whole life is turned upside down first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Y’all I don’t even care if it’s cheesy--- I love this damn trope. Sue me.
> 
> Warnings: NSFW; sex spells and curses, fuck or die, dubcon themes? I guess, because of the fuck/die plot (plot? what plot?); Dean being jealous; oral; unprotected sex

##  **_Witchy Woman_ **

Gif source: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189597245007/justjensenanddean-demon-dean-10x01-black) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189597240622/canonspngifs-309-malleus-maleficarum) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/173983976442)

* * *

It wasn’t the deputy, and the coroner was just a dark arts enthusiast, instead of a real witch like Dean and Cas had suspected. You were practically back at square one, which pissed you off pretty good, to say the least.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?” Dean grumbles from the driver’s side of the impala, drawing your glare from where it was settled, unfocused along the blurred treeline as the back roads of Cottonwood Falls flew past you. With his set jaw, he looked just as dissatisfied as you; probably more, if his reaction to finding you and Sam in bed together last night was anything to go by.

“This damn witch,” you offer up as an explanation, and that placates him. Shifting on the leather seat, you still feel the ache from the night before, but it was duller now. You’d barely been able to walk, let alone explain anything last night, so Sam had done enough talking with his brother for the both of you, resulting in one hell of a silent treatment this morning from Dean. It was childish, stupid, and you had no clue how to even begin to resolve the spiteful tension simmering between you.

Dean snorts, clicking on his wipers as the rain begins to pour and commenting dryly under his breath, “Funny; seems like this witch has only been bringing you all kinds of fun.”

Your temper flares at that, and your head snaps to focus your glare on him. He’d been like this all day, bitter and, dare you say it, jealous. A part of him you’d never before seen directed at yourself, and weren’t even aware was there at all until this morning.

Really, you just can’t take the attitude anymore, so you hunt it down head-on, like you did anything.

“You think having to fuck your brother to save his life was fun for me, Dean? He could have died, if I hadn’t done something! You were the one who told me to take care of him in the first place, if I remember correctly!” you snap at him, unable to take one more single snarky comment from the man on this topic. You’d been tolerating it all day, in the hopes that it would blow over when you killed this stupid witch, but he hadn’t simmered down at all. In fact, you were absolutely certain he’d made you team up with him today just to keep you and Sam separated. Focusing back to the window, you cross your arms indignantly, muttering under your breath much like he had a moment ago, “You know what, Dean, jealousy really is a bad look for you.”

“ _Jealous_?” he scoffs, glancing from the road to you then back again, and your whole body jerks to the left as he tugs the wheel harshly right and comes to an abrupt stop on the side of the road.

“Dean, what the hell---!”

“I’m _not_ jealous, princess,” he bites, whole body turned at the waist to face you as his left hand gripped the wheel tightly, eyes burning with a fire that dared you to engage.

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at him, “you’ve had a bug up your ass ever since you came back to the motel last night!”

“Well, _excuse me_ for being a little peeved that Cas and I were out doin’ all the work while you and Sam were workin’ each other over!”

“He would have died, Dean!” you were shouting now, in the confines of the impala with the rain thundering overhead, but you’re far too mad to care as you grasp the handle and let yourself out into the rain, rounding the car to grab your shit out of the trunk. You were burning with rage, blatantly ignoring his shouting of your name and the sound of the driver’s door slamming as he rounds the car after you.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he shouts at you, half out of his own anger and half just so you can hear him over the pouring rain. You would both be soaked, but you were both too hot-headed to care right now.

“To find this damn witch,” you bite back at him, tugging your bag from the trunk, but he grabs it and tugs you back. The force of his tug wrenches one of the barely-closed pockets open, something falling to your feet. You were about to yell at him about getting your stuff wet, when a spark of blue flame erupts on the ground, drawing both your eyes down to it.

Dean’s the one who winds up yelping through the rain, “Shit! Is that---”

The hex bag burns, blue against the asphalt until it dissolves into ash, and you groan as you feel the hairs on your neck stand on end, a groan, guttural in the back of your throat, “I fucking hate this witch.”

Ripping your bag from his grip, you run back to the passenger side of the impala, hearing Dean slam the trunk as he hurries after you. The leather seats squelch under your wet clothes, but you’re already rummaging through your duffel by the time Dean settles back in the driver’s seat.

“You gonna’ tell me what the hell that thing was?”

“Well,” your breathing was already picking up, and you could feel the tingle in your fingers, creeping up your skin until your whole body felt on edge, “I’m gonna’ guess the witch is pissed I saved Sam last time, so it’s coming for me, this time.” You would have to get more ingredients, because you only had enough for one last dose as it was.

“Wait, hold on,” Dean begins, processing, before it clicks in his head and his features smooth into shock and understanding, “are you telling me that---”

“Dean,” you silence him with a single look, which must mean you were appearing more affected than you thought already, “in a few minutes, I’m not going to be able to think a single intelligent thought other than the fact that I’m going to want to jump your bones, so either get your ass in gear and get me back to Sam, or give me your hand, so I can get this antidote finished before then.”

The blade runs along your own hand, as he wordlessly offers you his own, an acceptance of the events unfolding around you. He winces, as you bleed him, and the damn concoction tastes like dirt and iron as you force it down your throat after hastily mumbling the incantation.

“I’m going to kill this witch,” you growl, tossing your bag into the backseat as you try to catch your breath. Is this what it felt like for Sam? It really did _burn_. It felt like a branding iron, searing into you from the inside out, pulsing in your core with every beat of your heart and heightening your senses while muddying them to anything other than the man beside you at the same time. You were acutely aware of his cologne, of the woodsy scent that clung to him, and the soap of his shampoo. Water, from the rain, dripping down his hair, blazing along your own skin. Slurring your thoughts until only the painful, burning _throb_ remained. A need so profound, so demanding, that you know what little sense you have left is near to being lost.

Your eyes drag towards him, and you’re lost in the green of his irises, the pink of his lips. It’s vivid, the thoughts of what he could be doing with those lips, as they flash through your mind involuntarily. Thoughts that you had dwelled on in the past, but had never been as threatening as they were right this moment, because there’s nothing--- no fear of rejection, reprimand, consequences--- keeping you from asking him to fulfill them.

Dean carefully says your name, but it sounds fuller, deeper on his tongue to your oversensitive ears. Seductive, more so than you think your name has ever sounded before, and the low baritone seeps straight into your bones, shocking a shiver through your veins.

You can’t help but whimper out a moan.

“Hey, you’re going to be okay, just,” Dean swallows, and you watch his Adam's apple bob, see his eyes flicker to your lips, “tell me what to do to help. What’s gonna’ fix this?”

Your clothes were too damn hot--- too tight, and your fingers rip along the buttons of your shirt as quickly as you can, pushing it from your shoulders, if only to keep a sweat from breaking out along your skin in vain. Your voice sounds foreign to you, as a desperation seeps into it that you hadn’t ever felt before.

_“Just--- fuck me, Dean.”_

You were desperate for him, and still so mad at him. How he had acted, the words unspoken, bottled up behind his eyes that he would rather let singe in spite than confess a belated truth--- all of it, sends you towards him. Surging the length of the seat to find his lips with your own, your hands tangling into his hair, scraping along his scalp and earning a startled groan from the man beneath you. Dean pulls you into his lap just as quickly, though, your calves flanking his thighs as you waste no time in grinding your core against the growing bulge along the crotch of his jeans.

You’d never been as happy to wear this stuffy FBI uniform as you were right now, because Dean’s hands blaze along your skin, pushing the skirt of it up to your waist.

“Dean,” you rasp against his lips, tugging at his tie, tunnel vision worsening, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The only thing you wanted to focus on was him right now; the only thing you needed, was him, more than anything. It felt like, without his hands on you, you would combust, oxygen unable to meet your lungs fast enough for the metabolism burning through it.

“Yeah,” his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine, and your hips roll against his once more, but this time, he raises them to meet you. Hands digging into your hair to bare your neck to him, back brushing against the steering wheel. You were delirious, shutting your eyes as the rain on the tin roof thunders in your ears, feeling his grip loosen and his grind slow to allow you to refocus yourself on the column of his throat.

“I ever tell you,” you murmur between your attention at his jaw, blazing your lips down the stubble along his neck, making quick work of the buttons of his shirt, “that you in a suit,” you gaze your teeth at his earlobe, and the gasp that escapes him cuts a smile along your teeth, “never fails to get me wet.” You whimper near his ear, brushing your chest against his increasingly bare one, as you confess breathily, “You--- in anything, really.”

“Fuck,” he groans, leaning his head back on the seat and looking up at you, looking almost pained with how deep your words hit him, “this spell really is getting to you, huh?”

“Think I’m lying?” brazenly, you grasp his hand at your hip, guiding it between your thighs until his fingers ghost along your soaked panties, “See for yourself.”

Dean wastes no time in pressing harsher against the thin barrier your underwear provides, rasping out as his fingers rock against the wet fabric, urging your grind into his palm, “Your pussy is soaked, princess.”

“You gonna’ do something about it, Winchester, or am I gonna’ die over here?”

He chuckles, tugging your panties aside to press the pads of his fingers bare against your skin, drawing out a mewl of pleasure from you in return as he easily slips one into you, “Still sassing me through the hex, huh? Maybe I should put that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your forehead rests on his shoulder as you ride his fingers, sparks of pleasure jolting you at the ideas he sends ravaging your every thought, _“Oh, Dean...”_

He’s two knuckles deep and you’re a mess above him, each finger added adjusting easily with the last thanks to the curse swirling through your body, opening you up to him so easily, “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck yourself on my fingers. Do what you gotta’ do.” His voice in your ear does little to calm your soul or soothe you, but it certainly does bring you closer and closer to your hastily approaching release. When a groan rumbles in his throat, words on his tongue nearly kill you right then and there, “Use me, baby.”

He doesn’t tease you, just lets you claim it. Lets you bring yourself to orgasm along his hand, and then some, rubbing your clit until you collapse into his lap, heaving. Your ears are ringing, trying to catch your breath as desperately as you can, until you come down enough for the low Aerosmith song to finally catch your ears. For an instant, there’s clarity, and you break through the haze of the curse just enough to catch his gaze with your own.

A whisper, between your lips, in as much of a regret as you can give him with the brief moment of sense taking hold, “I’m so sorry about this, Dean.”

Deep sincerity, and something that hurts too much to acknowledge, answers you, his voice raspy and strained with the arousal there, “I’m not.”

His lips find yours again, and for a moment, you’re not in such a frenzy to keep from feeling the weight of it. Tongue slow, smooth as he presses into your mouth, searching for a reciprocation that he earns as quickly as his fingers curl within you again, and you moan into his lips.

You manage to wonder, before the haze takes over, if things would ever be the same again.

Dean parts from you, breathing hard with the urgency that burned beneath your lips, “You wanna’ crawl into the backseat, or---”

A harsh shake of your head, as you steady yourself on his shoulders, barely able to form coherent thoughts with the fire burning in your belly, “Need it right now--- Gonna’ ride you, Dean.”

“Damn,” he breathes, lifting his hips to push his jeans down the length of his thighs, “when you ask so nicely---”

“Shut up,” you murmur against his lips, feeling the length of him rest along your core, positioning your hips perfectly above him, “and fuck me.”

“Can do,” he smiles, gripping your waist as you sink down onto him, far faster than either of you had truly expected. A gasp rips, strangled from your throat at the relief that comes with the stretch of him, a tinge of soreness from the night before lingering even through the pleasure, but it feels as if you’ve been doused with cool water. Fever raging, but quenched ever so slightly with the curve of his hips as he rocks up into you with a low, staggering groan of his own.

“Y-You feel--- _God_ \--- so good,” Dean swallows, sounding absolutely wrecked as you sink down onto him once more, clenching around him involuntarily at the feeling. You know it must have something to do with the hex, with the spell, but you can’t stop to think too hard about it now. Not with how amazing he feels within you, hitting deep. He was thicker than Sam had been, but even with the length he lacked from his brother, it felt like he was near to hitting your cervix at each thrust of his hips, pistoning up against yours.

Planting his feet on the floorboards of the impala, his fingers rake up your back, urging your body closer to his as you ride him, picking up a pace that he meets as well as he can in such a cramped space. His name is slurred at your lips, tears stinging your eyes at the intensity of it, and he’s relentless, when his fingers come to press hard circles at your clit.

Even when your orgasm comes, you barely feel relief, desperation clawing up your throat, begging him at your lips. Incoherent, and you doubt he has a clue what you want from him, which barely you know yourself.

_More, harder, please, anything to make this go away._

You barely realize when he pulls you off of him, gasping harshly in an attempt to keep from cumming inside of you, as he spills along your stomach messily. Ungraceful, but nothing about this moment was perfect. Neck bared and skin raw, you were nothing if not animalistic, a whine as much as you can manage as your fingers slip through the evidence of his orgasm, before burying them in your mouth as he catches his breath, your other delving between your folds to rub at your clit in a heady need that has yet to be sated.

“ _Fuck_ , look at you,” he murmurs, watching your sorry state, until he props his hand between your shoulder blades and all but begs, “Get in the backseat. I can still help you.”

“P-Please, Dean,” you climb over the seat, kicking your ruined panties off into the floor before he soon follows. Back hot against the cool leather, sticking to your skin with the fever wrecking your senses, as he settles between your thighs.

“C’mere, baby,” he urges, tugging your hips down as you prop yourself against the door, holding onto the back of the seat for dear life as Dean wastes no time in pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh. Your throat was so dry, it’s hard to swallow as your head lulls back to hit the glass of the window, grateful for the rain pouring outside the window as you hear a car pass.

Your gaze drags back to his, catching the dilated lust reflected there. Feeling like you were completely underwater as his lips encompass your clit, your scream sounds muffled to your own ears. Back arching, your fingers run through his hair, gripping as his fingers meet his tongue in their pursuit of your pleasure. The feeling was nearly indescribable, electrifying, but any fear you had is smothered with the comforting relief that washes over you.

As long as he was between your knees, it felt like your heart would keep beating. Like you could keep breathing, if only for the sake of lasting long enough to thoroughly enjoy this.

His tongue drags through your folds, pressing at your entrance, where his fingers have found their place within you once more. You don’t know how long he’s there for, or how many times he brings you to a climax, but it must have been long enough for him to get hard again, because when he pulls from you, he’s tugging you down the seat until you’re flat on your back beneath him.

You’re crying, you realize, as he wipes the tears from your cheeks, overwhelmed by the heat boiling within you, and the intensity of the orgasms he’s ripped from your body.

“I-I can’t--- I feel like--- I feel like I’m dying, Dean,” you break through the fog that’s consumed him as much as you.

“You’re not,” Dean breathes against your skin, before capturing your lips with his own. You can taste yourself there, as you scrape your nails down the span of his back, earning a moan that punctuates his kiss, “I won’t let you. I’ve got you.”

Hitching your thighs over the curve of his own, he sinks into you, less frantically than before, but just as intense nonetheless. It takes your breath away, leaves you arching into his touch, as your fingers slip to find purchase on any part of him they can when he withdraws, just to level you with the assault of his hips once again. You’ve completely devolved, become a quivering, desperate mess beneath him, lost in harsh whimpers and muffled sobs as he hits you deep once again and plants his palm on the cool leather beside your head. Leveraging his body against yours to set a pace somewhere between torturous and merciless. Drawling out each strand of pleasure until you felt like a rubber band ready to snap, nearing the hapless end of your rope.

For once in your life, you felt entirely helpless, and that would have been terrifying--- overwhelmingly so--- if you weren’t caught up in Dean Winchester’s arms.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he promises, like a prayer, urging you on like you need the extra help to completely lose what little piece you have of yourself left in this moment.

Losing control had never been so excruciatingly sweet, as the coil in your belly snaps once more, blasting you into another ruthless climax that threatens to leave you devastated completely once it’s over. Every fiber of your being felt like it was vibrating, hanging onto this mortal plane with simply duct tape and a prayer, and when you finally land, you crash hard and heavy, right down onto the leather seat of the impala. Panting, struggling to catch your breath, it takes a moment to realize that Dean’s crushing you with the weight of him, wracked with the own shivers of his aftermath. A thick haze dwindling into a dull throb, clearing your head enough to come back to the world of the living.

It’s then that you feel the warmth between your thighs, and the wet drag of cum down the curve of your ass.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, breathing deep as he props himself up and slips out of you, messy and lewd, bringing you back with the sharp reality of what had just occurred between you.

“Dean,” you breathe, feeling the threat of arousal simmering in the ache of your stomach, already knowing your answer, “did you just---”

“Yeah, sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” he shoves himself guiltily up off of you, but is too exhausted to get further than the other side of the seat, leaning against the door as your legs tangle on his lap. You swallow, reaching for the bottle of water that you’d left rolling about the floor of his car, taking a sip of the lukewarm water to clear your head.

“It’s okay,” you begin, a sigh at your lips, “but here’s what we’re going to do.” He sits in silence, waiting, as your eyes slip to his. He looks like he’s beating himself up over it, internally, but when you fix him with your stare, he freezes. A deer caught in the headlights.

You can’t help your breathless laugh, “You look like I’m going to kill you, Dean.”

“You aren’t?” he raises a brow, but a relaxed smile tugs at his lips with the ease of the mood.

“No,” you roll your eyes. “I’m gonna’ take a Plan B real quick, and you’re going to drive us back to the motel, so you can fuck me into a proper mattress when we get there.”

He barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head as his hand rests on your thigh, “And here I thought you’d been cured.” You try your best to ignore the electrifying warmth the touch spreads through your skin.

Gulping back another sip of water, you try your best to steady your breathing as you prop yourself up into a sitting position, “Yeah, not quite yet. I’m afraid you’ve got more work to do, Winchester.”

Leaning closer, Dean brushes your hair from your face, cheeky grin meeting his lips, “At this rate, you’re gonna’ have to start payin’ me by the hour, baby.”

You scoff, pushing against his chest and keeping him from closing the distance to your lips, “That’s not even funny!”


End file.
